


So You Think You Can Tell Heaven from Hell?

by quicksloanesilver



Series: Wish You Were Here [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Basically, Canon-Typical Violence, Language shenanigans, Modern Girl in Thedas, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, and there is too much tension, but like there will be more to it, canon compliant but only kinda, fen harel shenanigans, hes such a persistent shit, just general bufoonery, of the solas kind, retelling of the inquisition story but theres spice involved i promise, solas is a bastard, this is really just a prologue to an upcoming work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:34:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22729990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quicksloanesilver/pseuds/quicksloanesilver
Summary: A lot of people will later ask me what it feels like to slip between worlds.Well, to be perfectly honest, it’s not much of a “slip” at all; it’s more like being barrel-rolled through a glass-pane window, breaking with the shards only to land onto concrete-hard water several floors below. But of course Josephine would just want me to smile and rattle off something about God or the Maker or whatever, and peaceful transcendence, and whatever else inspires people in these kinds of things.~*~You've played the game, you know the story. She crashes through space and time and lands in Thedas, meets lots of fun characters along the way, has to battle a demon or two and seal a couple of rifts.This is essentially a prologue/flashback for an upcoming installment in the series ("Swimming in a Fishbowl," yes all of the titles are lyrics from "Wish You Were Here," no I will not apologize) which I am incredibly excited to start writing, but I know I need this background first. Will be focusing on the OC/Solas relationship and on the struggles of being, well, a modern girl in Thedas, as cliche as it may be.
Series: Wish You Were Here [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1667563
Comments: 11
Kudos: 33





	1. Not in Kansas Anymore: Ch. I

**Author's Note:**

> Hi loves! So, yes, huge apologies. I know I have another Solavellan fic up and I /know/ that I've abandoned it mercilessly. I'm very sorry. I may return to it someday, which is why I haven't made it private/just deleted it entirely, but idk.
> 
> But then I got the hugest idea for a Solas fic and I just knew that I had to put it up. I'm immeasurably excited. Unfortunately it's not this one per se, but it'll be the second in the series once I finish with this set-up/pining/angst. God, I can't wait. As such, I'm trying to keep a lot of the scenes here on the quicker side, especially since we all know their details already. 
> 
> I'm also honestly drowning in schoolwork atm, but I also also can't resist the need to write. So do with that what you will.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breaking thru time and space, like all the cool kids do.

A lot of people will later ask me what it feels like to slip between worlds. 

Well, to be perfectly honest, it’s not much of a “slip” at all; it’s more like being barrel-rolled through a glass-pane window, breaking with the shards only to land onto concrete-hard water several floors below. But of course Josephine would just want me to smile and rattle off something about God or the Maker or whatever, and peaceful transcendence, and whatever else inspires people in these kinds of things. 

But truth is that right now, in that moment, I felt like my whole entire self was being taken apart. In a fundamental, soul-rending, body-breaking way that I cannot even begin to fathom, much less convey in words, I have been body-whipped through that metaphorical glass window, shattering it into a million beautiful little crystals with the fleshy heaviness of my physical self. The crystals fly into the cold, early morning air I find outside, where they glitter like ice and sugar and scrape against my skin. The sky is a flat expanse of blue. There is a brief moment of illusive weightlessness, and my stomach churns.

People will want to know what I saw in that space in between, what secrets of the universe - not just Earth-universe, but universe-universe, all-encompassing - I could divine from this brief trip. As if human perception is in any way equipped for such a question, as if the very fact that my own self is somehow being slammed between parallel universes, or some shit in that vein, is not already challenge enough for any stupid human brain to handle. But sure, I definitely took in the sights, smelled the roses. Maybe I stopped by Jupiter. Made sure to leave through the gift shop when I get back out. I’ll take loads of unattractive pictures and then dump them on Facebook when I get home. Of course. 

No, all I can feel during this wonderful little trip across universes is fantastic, awe-inspiring, horrifying pain. Not even pain, per se, really, because “pain” pre-supposes all sorts of physical embodiments that I don’t think I have on hand at the moment. More like extreme pressure caving in, strangulation, or instead pressure imploding from within or exploding to the outside or all of those forces acting together and pushing my skin in every which direction possible. Trust me, if I had a good way of describing what total annihilation of my form feels like, I’d be using it by now. 

Everything here bends: matter, space, time. Everything that grounds human conception. If I looked past this fantastic, searing not-pain I bet I could actually glimpse some random future (it would be bold to assume that future would be mine); I’m not reaching for the secrets of the universe quite yet. As it stands, the most cognitive thought I had was a scrambled internal monologue and an unyielding sense of empty green. Blank solitude. And a stray wheel of cheese. Do with that what you will. 

And now I’m tearing through what I will later identify as the Veil, and the sensation is somehow even worse, even more alienating, than anything else I experience in the last immeasurable span of time. Have you ever had to break through a metaphysical barrier that separates another universe’s supernatural world from its concrete earth? No? Well, it fucking sucks. A lot. It’s what I imagine careening through a sonic boom feels like, if the air around you was suddenly made of gritty sandpaper and chalkboard surfaces. It’s like I’ve finally hit that water down below, except the water is actually the fabric of this world’s very existence, and it’s sinking in and stretching around me as I am plunged under its depths. 

Again, just to reiterate, this whole fucking experience sucked. 

~*~

And then I hit the bottom of the pool, and suddenly I snap back into the present. Time rushes back at me and it feels a little (a lot) like being kicked in the head but at least it’s rushing at me _straight,_ for God’s sake, and I’m _somewhere_. 

Somewhere. I don’t know where, exactly, and as the not-pain of suddenly being back in the flow of time fades it gets superseded by a different not-pain: I can _feel_ the world around me, feel the air grating against my skin and the ground beneath my back seems so much harder than the ground usually is, yet somehow also more fluid, like lying on a waterbed. Actually, everything around me just kinda feels like one giant waterbed, as if all matter is just undulating around me with some quiet, unforgiving force. I feel like I’m high. Maybe, probably I am. I also feel out of breath. And so incredibly tired. I close my eyes and try to make the world around me feel less oppressive, less like I’m about to throw up. Crap, I’m about to throw up. 

So I do, eyes shut tight as the acid streams down my throat. Am I hungover? That must be it; I can’t really process anything except green lights and darkness and an incredible sense of falling, falling over several times in succession. I roll over onto my back again, groan. I should find out where I am, should get up and start asking for directions, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt so horrible before in my life. 

Dimly, I pick up running footsteps, steadily coming at me. There’s shouting, commotion, but it’s not in a language I recognize. It almost makes me want to laugh, because _of course_ I would drink myself all the way to another country. The shouting is right over me now, and someone shakes my shoulder. I peer at her through my matted eyelashes, and all I can really catch is the glint of metal. Armor? And her friend, rising into my vision,in some sort of… 17th-century looking cowl. They speak at me again, their words falling dully on my ears, and I try to flex my aching throat to say something, anything. 

“What is this, some sort of fucking renaissance fair or something?” A renaissance fair in another country, because why not, why not let a drunken Sloane cross country borders just to end up at some ultimate nerdfest of all nerdfests? I try to open my eyes wider, focus more, “What are you supposed to be? Let me guess, a wood elf bard mage or some shit…”

I stop short. I can’t help it, because the worst, sinking thing is that suddenly I know where I am. I know where I am, and I know who these two women are, now that I’ve finally mustered enough focus to actually look at them. And suddenly everything snaps into place and I wish that I was just hungover, just in a foreign country, just at a renaissance fair. Christ, I’m a long way from home.

Leliana - Nightingale Leliana, Left Hand Leliana, Leliana who thinks I’ve killed her Divine Leliana, who I’ve just called a “wood elf bard mage” Leliana - leans closer to me, trying several languages. Cassandra - oh God, Cassandra - begins to grab me by the shoulders in the meanwhile, and I shake my head at each of Leliana’s offered phrases as she hoists me up and over her shoulder like it’s nothing. The motion and the revelation of where I am and the oppressiveness of the world around me, that steady, nagging not-pain, all proves to be too much as my eyes cross and I black out again. The last thing I check, right before I clock out, is whether or not my right hand is glowing green. 

Of course it fucking is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very important disclaimers: my name is not actually Sloane. I cannot emphasize enough that it's just a name I find super cool, hence why I made it my nick on here. But I was thinking for a long time what I could call this OC and Sloane is just such a perfect name for her, I couldn't resist. I know it makes me look like a narcissist in a lot of ways but I cannot repeat enough that Sloane isn't. My actual. Name. 
> 
> Also yes, the verb tenses are very intentionally screwy in the first bit. She's breaking through time itself, folks.


	2. Doubly Proud: Ch. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pride no. 1: the literal pride demon
> 
> Pride no. 2: enter Solas stage right 
> 
> Sloane says some stupid things. Solas is in trouble.

Good news is this time Cassandra isn’t trying to interrogate me. Doing so would be futile, of course, since I don’t understand a word of what she’s saying. Hearing her and the prison guard sling Common at each other in the corner is like watching two cartoon characters interact, almost, their phrases all “@#*!%” and “%&@!!*#.” Like garbled Sim-language. But I know it just means that they’re all the more suspicious of me, throwing not-so-secret glances in my direction as they talk. 

Bad news is I still feel like shit. Like I haven’t eaten in ages (which I haven’t) or had anything to drink (nope) or gotten any decent rest (how long was I out?). I lean against the cell wall and it still feels like trying to rest myself against a waterbed, and I involuntarily groan as my stomach flips. This, at least, catches Cass’s attention, and she picks up a jug of water and some food that was lying nearby, at the ready. She balks near the cell door, but I must look so pathetic, curled up in the corner like that, that she begrudgingly opens the door and comes inside. She sets down the jug and the food - something like an apple, it seems, and some bread - and then steps back. I’m thankful, and I try to make it clear when I give her a pointed nod before gratefully reaching for the metal jug. 

But something is off as I try to swallow the water. It feels wrong in my mouth, like jello, almost, and I barely choke it down. I feel it travel down my throat and settle in my stomach, where it sits like a stone. Maybe it’s best I don’t try to eat for a while. 

“ _ᛁᛟᚢ’ᚱᛖ ᚾᛟᛏ ᚷᛟᛁᛜ ᛏᛟ ᛖᚨᛏ?_ ” she questions, and I smile at her, shaking my head weakly. She seems to understand, and motions for me to follow her. When I have difficulty standing up, she support me under the shoulder, muttering something under her breath all the while. 

~*~

Seeing the Breach in person is sickening. My head spins from where I’m seated on the back of some simple animal, more mule than horse, as I look at its green, swirling depths. 

Cass and I ride in understandable silence. Every once in a while we have to stop as she fights off a demon or two, and I can’t help but admire her fighting style: there’s something unyielding, impassable about the way she angles her shield, a calculated brutality that lurks behind every swing of her blade. She’s unafraid to take a risk, elbowing one shade with a decisive twist of her arm before skewering another with a ruthless thrust of her sword. I almost wish I could help her, but even the thought of standing seems too great a feat. All I can do is watch, and wonder how the fuck I’m going to fight that pride demon later. 

Sure, I muse as Cassandra returns covered in demon ichor, maybe there won’t actually be a pride demon this time around. There’s no reason for this world - whatever it may be, consciousness or alternate reality or dream-state or whatever - to be exactly the same as the game I’m used to back home. Maybe it won’t be a pride demon at all. Maybe it’ll be worse. 

We pick up Varric and Solas and continue riding onwards. There’s a warm comfort in seeing Varric again (even if I’m really only seeing him for the first time), with his beaming smile and shaggy topknot and the solid ease with which he shoulders Bianca. They both had tried to approach me, but Cassandra had simply barked a few rough phrases in Common at them and they’ve kept a wide berth from me ever since. I try to pretend I can’t feel Solas staring at me every once in a while, and he pretends not to feel me staring back; funny, how I must present a total mystery to him while I know more about him than anyone else. I catch him at it one time, decide I’ve had enough, and flex my hand at him in a tight wave as I give what I hope is a lopsided, impressive grin. He instantly jerks his gaze away, the tips of his ears twitching as he pretends nothing happened. I stifle a laugh, much to Cass’s alarm. She doesn’t take her eyes off of me once until we reach the rift. 

My eyes linger over the charred corpses at the temple as I hear everyone arguing behind me. The solution they arrive at is embarrassing: I’m given four rank-and-file soldiers, my own personal detail, to ensure that I don’t get harmed in the upcoming fight. One of them grips my shoulders, ready to maneuver me wherever I need to go, as if I’m a weapon to be wielded. Which I suppose I kind of am, really. 

As we stand underneath the unopened rift, he grips my arm, white-knuckled and, as soon as Cassandra gives him the okay, wildly thrusts it upwards at the sky. The air above me cracks, splitting open into that sickly green, and some wild force savagely jerks me upwards, towards the rift. I scream in pain, my whole body coursing with wrong energy, and feel myself losing consciousness again. The last thing I see as my vision dims is the colossal pride demon, bearing down on Cassandra and the rest with a deafening roar. 

~*~

I don’t wake up in a cozy, golden-lit bedroom in Haven the way I’m supposed to. Instead, I’m back in a cell, though this one does seem more comfortable than the one I was in before. Maybe I’m starting to get in Cassandra’s good graces already. I actually have a bed this time around, albeit a shabby, simple one, just a few wooden boards and a thin mattress pad. 

I finally notice now that my left thigh is insistently singing with pain, the sensation wrapping around it like a coiled snake. Actually, the entirety of me is throbbing and weak, and still just as lightheaded as I was on the first day, except for my right hand; I wiggle my fingers and find a strange ease in the movement. As for the rest of me… 

I try to sit up to get a better look, but all I am able to glimpse is a swath of bandages, wrapped around my leg, smeared with green paste (elfroot, no doubt) before someone’s hands push at my shoulders. His voice comes at me smooth, skipping from syllable to unintelligible syllable like a smooth pebbled stream, as he gently eases me back down and I can’t help groaning at the sound of it. His face comes into my field of vision, and of course it’s Solas, the knit of his brows the perfect vision of concern. I kind of want to spit in his face, kind of want to yell at him, kind of want to body-check him right then and there, but that’s mostly my pain talking and only a little me. His fingers are stained with elfroot, a clean and earthy scent, as he wipes my forehead down with a wet towel. He keeps talking, as if he knows how soothing the cadence of his voice is, how listening it to like this, abstracted and impossible to understand, feels like falling asleep. The gentle rise and fall of his speech reminds me of birdsong, of the soft exhale of steam you get when you take the plastic lid off of a hot cup of green tea, even though he detests the stuff, of the winding feeling of reading a good book for hours on end. 

He continues, but his voice gains an edge, putting me on guard, rising until I feel something cold and wet press against my leg, a biting pain slicing into the wound. I let out a strangled cry, which echoes in the sudden silence of the cell, and pant heavily as Solas methodically re-bandages my leg. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him cast aside the old wrappings, stained dirty red and green. How fitting: he distracted me with his voice before pressing stinging liquid into my wound - it's all too familiar. 

“ _ᛁ ᚨᛈᛟᛚᛟᚷᛁᛉᛖ_ ,” he says in the silence, and I feel that it is probably an apology. My vision still swimming somewhat, I let my breathing ease. 

I _know_ that I should be careful. I know that revealing my situation, unbelievable as it is, isn’t a choice I should be taking lightly. I know that I need to tread lightly. But the temptation, as one of the few phrases I remember from the game swims to the top of my consciousness, is far too great. Besides, everyone's going to find out eventually, right?

With an exhausted, but genuine grin, I turn toward Solas. Funny, his eyes here aren’t the flat storm gray of the game; there’s a flame behind them, a splash of auburn brown. A deeper edge of blue around the rim of his iris. I watch them as I let him know, every word clicking into place with stone-heavy finality, even through the weak waver behind my voice: “Ma harel, fen.” 

Of course, I’m gambling on the fact that the Elvhen of the game in any way resembles the Elvhen of this world, but it’s oh-so worth it because Solas sharply stiffens, eyes snapping open with visible alarm. His lip twitches, and I know how wrong this must seem to him, how disabling, to see this unknown shem start spouting his deepest secrets in a crooked version of his own language at him. I grin to myself, watching him go through the five stages of grief - eyebrows shifting from disbelief to tight anger, his thin lips pressed tight, the cut of his cheekbones somehow growing sharper - before he starts rambling at me in low, insistent Elvhen, the arch of his jaw jumping with emotion as he works through the language. He's quiet, surreptitious, but even I can tell the growing threat rising in the melodic lull of his voice. 

I weakly wave him off, cutting him short, then pointedly raise up my hand. I go through the phrases I can remember, counting them on my fingers: “Ma harel. Da’len. Hahren. Ir abelas. Solas-“ at this I raise my eyebrows at him, smiling, while his face remains carved into the same expression of shock and irritation “-Solas. Evanuris. Eluvian. Fen’harel-“ 

He interrupts me with what I can only describe as a growl. How very fitting, but I bow my head apologetically, repeating in a quieter tone, “Fen’harel. Fen’harel ver na. Fenedhis,” and then pause, rolling the next word around on my tongue. …Sure, why not? 

I smile again, just as softly, “Vhenan.” Then I let my hand fall, turning away from him. “I don’t speak your language,” I repeat in the ensuing silence, just to make it clear. 

“ _ᛒᚢᛏ ᛁᛟᚢ ᚲᚾᛟᚹ ᚨ ᚠᛖᚹ ᛈᚺᚱᚨᛊᛖᛊ ᛟᚠ ᚨᚾᚲᛁᛖᚾᛏ_ Elvhen…” he mutters back, retreating into his own thoughts as I drift back off into sleep, satisfied. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering what I use to denote "Common" atm, as Sloane doesn't speak it, it's actually Viking runes! There's a few generators out there so I just use whatever's on hand.
> 
> Also, Elv(h)en guide:  
> "Ma harel, da'len" is what Solas says to Mihris (I think that’s her name: the Dalish mage in the Hinterlands) if you play as a non-Dalish Inquisitor. Widely agreed to translate to “You lie, da’len.”  
> And then “fen,” of course, means wolf :)
> 
> PATCH NOTES:   
> Edit 1: Beefed up Solas interaction a little more.


	3. Surviving Thedas: Ch. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sloane learns to live life in Thedas, but goddamn speaking Common is hard. How did she end up here, anyways?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spent considerable time fake-translating runes this time round. Please lmk if I made a mistake somewhere by revealing a lot of Common at once, but I think I got it all.

The next few weeks are filled with the exact kinds of boring shit no one wants to hear about. My leg heals, I get accustomed to Thedas’s atmosphere, Cass starts to trust me more, Josephine and Solas take turns trying to teach me Common, and Cullen attempts to teach me how to hold a sword but I prove increasingly faulty at it. So he turns me loose towards Leliana, who shows me that daggers have a bit that you hold onto and another bit that you try to stick into your opponent; any technique beyond that is lost on me and my English-speaking ears. 

Learning the language is as difficult as anyone might imagine. We start by translating the scant phrases I know in Elvhen, and from there I find myself mostly using guesswork. Josie draws me pictures in her neat little hand, circles and squares and triangles on one page and cats and dogs and horses on another, and writes out their names in Common underneath. Solas, on the other hand, tends to just pace around the room and give me lectures that turn to gibberish in my ears, which I find both infuriating and a welcome respite from all of the other shit I have to do every day. A part of me suspects that he wants to delay my progress as much as possible, just to save himself. 

What little free time I do have, I try to spend in the tavern kitchen, getting accustomed to Fereldan food while also recreating recipes from home. It was difficult at first, but the cooks and I managed to reach a wordless agreement where I accept whatever scraps they give me and I stay out of their way in return. And though it is hard to try to cobble together a meal out of a few pieces of bread and an odd assortment of alien vegetables, I tend to manage, in my own way. I suspect I gave kitchen staff hours of material to gossip about as well, so really I was doing them a favor. 

We move through the Hinterlands slowly, since having an effectively mute Herald tends to lessen the effect of my good deeds somewhat. Not to mention the fact that I still fight like the clumsy 21st-century New Yorker that I am, and I emerge from more than one battle with long claw- and tooth-marks running down my arms that Solas reluctantly has to treat with stinging servings of elfroot and spindleweed. 

~*~

It’s weeks before I can handle at least an approximation at a real conversation in Common. Varric tells me a joke that for once I understand, something about a dwarf and a templar walking into a bar, and I laugh so hard I start crying, it’s been so long since I’ve heard a punchline. Varric bursts into laughter at that too, clapping me on my shoulder. He continues telling me all about the past month, how I earned the nickname “Ghost” for my quiet presence in Haven (and for sneaking around the kitchens like that, no doubt), how Cassandra and the rest used to stay up late to talk about me, how he was starting to write a book about it all. At least, I think that’s what he says; I have to fill in a lot of the blanks. We become fast friends as Solas guardedly looks on. 

That night I get called into the War Room, with everyone in attendance - Solas and Varric and Cass included. They’re seated around me, crowded into the small space, and suddenly I realize that I’m finally getting my interrogation scene. 

“Your Common _ᚺᚨᛊ_ _ᚷᛟᛏᛏᛖᚾ_ better.” I have to strain just to catch a few of Josie’s words. 

“Yes,” I manage. 

“We have questions,” Cassandra shapes the words slowly, with care. I nod. “Where did you come from?”

“I…” Christ, this won’t be easy. I stutter, “A world. Different. A different world.” Prepositions are hard. I can’t translate them. 

“When she first _ᚲᚨᛗᛖ ᚦᚱᛟᚢᚷᚺ_ , her body was _ᚱᛖᛃᛖᚲᛏᛖᛞ ᛒᛁ ᚦᛖ_ world _ᚨᚱᛟᚢᚾᛞ_ us. It _ᛏᛟᛟᚲ ᚲᛟᚾᛊᛁᛞᛖᚱᚨᛒᛚᛖ_ strength _ᛏᛟ ᛊᛏᚨᛒᛁᛚᛁᛉᛖ_ it,” Solas murmurs. 

“What does _ᚦᚨᛏ ᛗᛖᚨᚾ_?” Cassandra. 

“I _ᛊᚢᛊᛈᛖᚲᛏ_ she _ᛁᛊ ᛏᛖᛚᛚᛁᛜ_ the truth. The very _ᚠᚨᛒᚱᛁᚲ ᛟᚠ ᚦᛁᛊ_ world does not _ᛊᛖᛖᛗ ᚹᛁᛚᛚᛁᛜ ᛏᛟ ᚨᚲᚲᛖᛈᛏ_ her. It _ᛖᚲᛊᛈᛚᚨᛁᚾᛊ_ why she was so weak _ᚨᛏ ᚠᛁᚱᛊᛏ_.”

“I’m sorry, what?” I point at Solas. I can tell they were talking about me. 

“When you first _ᚲᚨᛗᛖ_. Your body is not _ᚨᚲᚲᚢᛊᛏᛟᛗᛖᛞ ᛏᛟ_ _ᚦᛁᛊ_ world.”

“My body is…”

“ _ᚱᛖᛃᛖᚲᛏᛖᛞ ᛒᛁ ᚦᛁᛊ_ world,” he raises his eyebrows, “Yes?”

“I arrive-“ tenses are also very hard “-Breathing. Very difficult. Air wrong. Weak. My body is… disliked by world?” 

Solas smiles wryly, and I scowl back. “Yes,” he answers, “Your body is disliked by this world.” 

“ _ᛖᚨᛊᛖ ᚢᛈ ᛟᚾ_ her, Chuckles,” Varric quips. 

“ _ᛒᚢᛏ_ what _ᛞᛟᛖᛊ_ she _ᛗᛖᚨᚾ_ , a different world?” Leliana. 

“Different. Not here. Not Thedas,” I answer. 

_“ᛒᚢᛏ ᚺᛟᚹ?”_ I sigh with frustration. How can I explain a theory of multiple worlds, parallel universes, with little more than a 2-year-old’s vocabulary? 

“A… rift,” I hazard, and Cassandra’s brows knit together instantly. I grimace; that’s not what I intended. Thankfully, Cullen mutters something to the rest of the group, seconded by Varric, and they seem to agree to change the subject. For now. 

“You knew Elvhen. _ᛏᚺᚨᛏ’ᛊ ᚺᛟᚹ_ you _ᛒᛖᚷᚨᚾ_ to learn Common,” Leliana presses. I wince.

“It is difficult. I say… My world… My world has your world, small. Small Thedas in Earth. Earth, my world.”

“A small _ᚢᛖᚱᛊᛁᛟᚾ_ of Thedas?” Cassandra. 

“Yes.”

_“ᚺᛟᚹ…?”_

“We have… many small worlds,” and suddenly, it hits me, “Books. Songs. Small worlds in books and songs and…” I motion with my hands, hope they understand that there’s even more. 

“In your world, we are a… song?” Solas peers at me intensely. 

“Yes. No. Yes.” Because it’s really more than that, but yes, kind of…

_“ᛁᚠ_ we are a song in your world… _ᛒᚢᛏ_ you _ᛟᚾᛚᛁ_ knew Elvhen?” Leliana again. 

“Yes… Pieces…” I wince again, and the pain on my face makes Leliana stop. 

“ _ᛁᚠ ᚹᚺᚨᛏ_ she says is true… _ᚺᛟᚹ ᛗᚢᚲᚺ ᚲᛟᚢᛚᛞ_ she know of our world?” Cullen says to the whole group, and Solas won’t take his eyes off of me. “ _ᛞᛟ_ you know _ᚦᛖ ᚠᚢᛏᚢᚱᛖ_?” Cullen asks. 

“‘ _ᚦᛖ ᚠᚢᛏᚢᚱᛖ_?’” I echo. The word is still alien to me. 

“ _ᛞᛟ_ you know this world? In this ‘song,’ what _ᚺᚨᛈᛈᛖᚾᛊ_? What is the story?” Cullen continues. 

I nod, looking straight at Solas. “Yes, I know. I do not have words…” His face is impassive, but I know his game, and he can’t ignore it. His mouth twitches, again. 

Leliana and Cass exchange a look, nod. “We _ᛊᚺᛟᚢᛚᛞ ᚹᚨᛁᛏ ᚢᚾᛏᛁᛚ_ she _ᚺᚨᛊ ᛗᛟᚱᛖ ᛟᚠ_ the language _ᛗᚨᛊᛏᛖᚱᛖᛞ_. _ᚠᛟᚱ ᚾᛟᚹ_ …” and Cassandra trails off into a string of Common I cannot even begin to hope to interpret. Solas reluctantly takes his eyes off of me, and the aversion of his gaze is somehow even more chilling, reminding me of the tension between us. Varric comes up to me, squeezes my arm in solidarity. I smile weakly back at him. What have I gotten myself into? 

“…We _ᛗᚢᛊᛏ ᚷᛟ ᛏᛟ_ Val Royeaux.” Cassandra’s words cut back into my consciousness. 

“ _ᚨᚱᛖ_ we _ᛊᚢᚱᛖ_ she is _ᛈᚱᛖᛈᚨᚱᛖᛞ, ᚦᛟᚢᚷᚺ_?” Josephine looks worried. 

“It is _ᚾᛟ ᛗᚨᛏᛏᛖᚱ_. We _ᚹᛁᛚᛚ_ teach her _ᛗᛟᚱᛖ_ Common _ᛟᚾ ᚦᛖ ᚹᚨᛁ_.” Solas. 

“Val Royeaux?” I stop their conversation. “Yes. We go.” I hate speaking brokenly like this, but it has its effect. I feel like Tarzan, if Tarzan had to lead one of the world’s most powerful political organizations of his time. 

“ _ᛊᛟ_ we _ᛊᚺᚨᛚᛚ_ go,” Leliana smiles. 


	4. Val Royeaux (Brief): Ch. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip to the Golden City itself + an illuminating convo with Solas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh... I will miss those runes. But she's getting better and better at Common by the sentence. 
> 
> Didn't really want to dwell in Val Royeaux long; I'm trying to get this prologue over with quickly. Promise a more in-depth scene soon, though! <3

It takes us another few weeks to get to Val Royeaux, with only a few bedraggled mules and a handful of horses to make up our travel party. Josephine and I receive the luxury of riding in the caravan, a privilege largely dampened by the fact that I have to dedicate every single ounce of free time towards studying Common and learning political etiquette from Josie. 

At the end of those few weeks, however, I manage to gain a pretty good grasp on Common, enough to eavesdrop on everyone’s conversations and even interject on my own sometimes. In my few stolen minutes of free time, Varric and I exchange swear words or amuse ourselves by making up fake stories for the rest of the group - all as a mental exercise for his writing, of course. I avoid gossiping about Solas, though: I can feel his eyes on the back of my head for the entirety of the trip. 

~*~

But nothing can prepare me for Val Royeaux. It’s more resplendent than I could ever imagine, all red ornaments and shining light, bouncing from glittering tower to gleaming fountain to radiant lake. I must look like one of those dumbstruck tourists at Times Square, mouth open wide enough to catch flies, but I can’t help it: it truly is wonderful. 

“Be careful. There is nothing but _ᚱᛟᛏ_ underneath this thin layer of cheap gold,” Solas calmly says. 

“Funny for you to say,” I try to shoot back, but I doubt the meaning came across. He doesn’t reply. I manage to get even more tongue-tied when I address the Chantry. The most I can manage is a painfully simple statement: “We want peace.” No doubt butchered mercilessly by my alien accent, at which the sisters scoff. 

“Look at her,” Mother Herara proclaims to the crowd, “She can’t even speak Common, and she doesn’t have the respect to learn. What Herald is this?” 

And when the templars show up, as I knew they would, they have little more to say. “A false Herald!” Lord Seeker Lucius calls after socking Herara in the jaw, “Who doesn’t even know our tongue. What power you may _ᚲᛚᚨᛁᛗ_ , it is not your own.” 

“Tough ride, Ghost,” Varric rumbles. 

“Lord Seeker Lucius is not the man I remember,” Cass follows. 

“I knew he would be a jerk,” I sigh. “I know…” Cassandra looks at me, expectant, and I shake my head. “Never mind. You do not want the knowledge. Not now.” 

~*~

I am silent on the way back to Haven, but at least I did manage to recruit Sera and Vivienne after the stinking shitfest that was Val Royeaux. The group’s chatter, largely fueled by Sera, masks my silence well enough, and I am able to mull over my thoughts in peace. When we break for camp, I find some solace in watching the razor-sharp flames of the campfire lick at the darkening sky. 

“You taking first watch then, Ghost?” Varric calls out to me as the rest of the party begin to head towards bed. I simply nod. 

“Sloane…” I look over at Cassandra. It’s rare that she addresses me by name. “I just want you to know that I appreciate all that you are doing. We all do.”

“Thank you, Cassandra,” I turn back to the fire. 

“I mean it.”

“I always knew that Val Royeaux was not going well…” Christ, how is it that my sentences are still so jagged?

“But it _ᛊᛏᛁᛚᛚ_ hurts, I understand.” She’s come up closer, crouching down to sit next to me. 

“You wish to know what I know about Lucius.” 

“Maybe. But I respect your choice not to tell me.”

“I don’t know how much I can say. If all of my knowledge is correct.” 

“Anything we can get is helpful.”

And so I tell her everything. Well, almost. And at the end she nods, her face clouded with all of the overbearing knowledge I’ve given her, and leaves me be.

~*~

Hours later, as I am boiling water for my millionth cup of tea, I hear another set of footsteps behind me. Soft, practiced, without the heavy clunk of armor - Solas. 

“I overheard you speaking with the Seeker earlier.”

“Hmph,” I just grunt. 

“If I may ask, why didn’t you tell her all you knew?”

“Are you recommending that I do?” I look up at him, watch the way the firelight burns hotly against the line of his jaw. He sighs, sits down next to me. There’s an uncanny grace to the way he eases onto the ground, a measured practice. The water I set aside begins to boil, and I go about making my tea, feeling Solas’s eyes on me all the while. 

“In case you’re wondering, no, I won’t offer you a cup. I know you hate tea.” 

He raises an eyebrow. “My point exactly.”

“If you think that I am keeping your secrets because I want to be one of your agents, you are sorely mistaken.” 

“If you do not believe in my cause, why protect it?”

“I am _not_ protecting your cause, Fen’harel,” I snap, “I am _protecting_ the Inquisition. And myself. Do you think it would be in any way wise for me to go around killing members of my own party, especially powerful mages who have gathered ‘immeasurable knowledge’ from the Fade itself? I barely have any favor amongst the people as it is. And to think…!” Over the course of my outburst I’ve leaned in close to him, closer than I should’ve, probably, enough to see the flames of the campfire reflect in his eyes. Inches away from his face, I realize that my fist is raised, emphasizing some dramatic point with menace. 

“But you are the blessed Herald, the woman who knows the future…”

“Do not give me reason-”

“Do not avoid the question.” I drop my raised hand with irritation. 

“Contrary to what many people would like to think, Solas, I am not a vengeful or bloodthirsty person. The world I come from hides its violence in other ways,” I grimace, “Besides, it’s not as if I could ever pose a real threat to you. We both know that you could snap me like a twig if you so wished.”

He says nothing in reply. It’s the most disquieting response I could have imagined: of course it’s the one he gave me. 

“What do you want me to say? That you are a valuable member of this movement? That I am not inclined to kill someone who can still recall the days of Elvhenan? Either way, I lack the legitimacy to start ordering executions just yet.” The words spill out, all too rapid as I hiss, “And _don’t_ think that I don’t notice that my Common has improved considerably during this conversation. Whatever spell you are using, stop it.”

Solas lets slip a small smile. “In that case, I would prefer it if you kept your fists away from my face, Herald. _And_ let go of my collar.” Crap. I realize that I am, in fact, gripping tightly onto the thin fabric of his tunic. And that I am still mere inches from his face. And that my cheeks are beginning to burn. And it’s not just because of the fire nearby. 

I mutter an apology, meekly returning to my previous position. His tunic had been rough against my fingers, and I feel an echo of its texture on my fingertips as I gaze at the fire (I don’t have the gall to look at him, after all). The silence that settles between us does little to ease my embarrassment. 

Finally, he breaks it with a small hum. “So you will not reveal my motivations, but you will also continue to openly detest me in the meanwhile?” 

“The situation is not ideal,” I take a sip of my cooling tea, never more thankful to be speaking in my broken Common again, “Though it is good for you to recognize the danger I am. For you. And you are very easy to detest.”

“I am glad to see you willingly drink something.”

“Sweet-talking does not work.” Probably not the best answer I could have given, in the present context. 

“You must know that it is in my best interest to see you alive.”

“Is that a threat?”

“You also know it isn’t. Sloane, I am serious about this,” he levels his gaze at me, “your body was not meant to exist in this world. You must tread lightly.”

“Sounds like a threat,” I scoff. “Is this how you offer to watch camp?”

He pauses, then the corner of his lip quirks upwards, ever so slightly, “Sure. Rest is imperative, after all.”

I grunt, standing up. “Good night then, Fen.”

A pause. I can almost hear his ears twitch. “Good night, Herald.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do we like this Solas, fellas? I am obsessed with his character, and there's something fascinating about him when he no longer plays the role of "humble apostate." Hm.
> 
> PATCH NOTES:   
> Edit 1: Added even more mindfuckery in the Solas scene (you're welcome).


	5. Redcliffe: Ch. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time travel hijinks + conversations with Cass and Dorian and Sera + another Solas confrontation. Sloane can't forget her time on Earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't resist adding another chapter this weekend. 
> 
> I /should/ be writing certain essays, but, well, fuck it :)

The next time I find myself walking towards the War Room, Cassandra calls me to the side. 

“Sloane, I have been thinking about what you told me…”

“Yes?”

“You told me Haven will be destroyed.” Her face is drawn. 

“Yes, most likely.” When she says nothing I add, “I know, Cassandra. A lot of people will die. Good people.” 

“And there is no way to avoid this?”

“Corypheus knows where we are. The best we can do is be prepared.” 

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. I will tell the others, then.”

I can’t help smiling as I look at her. To know so much about everyone’s futures… I haven’t told her about becoming Divine yet, or about the chance to reform the Templar Order… Or about Varric’s book, either. 

“Cassandra?” I call after her as she begins to turn away. 

“Yes?”

“Do you still believe me to be the Herald? Even knowing all that you know?”

She hesitates. “You were sent her for a purpose, yes. Though it may be hard to see sometimes.” She pauses, “And I must apologize, as well. I treated you unjustly when we first met. It was not right.

I laugh, “I don’t blame you. You thought I performed one of the first major acts of terrorism Thedas had ever seen.”

“A first act of…?”  
“Never mind,” I chuckle, “It’s no problem, Cass. I know that the path you are walking is uncertain, and that you want to believe what you are doing is right.”

“I…”

“Everything will be okay, Cassandra.”

She pauses. “Thank you, Herald.” Coming from her, the title almost begins to feel like a good thing. 

I do my best to warn everybody about Redcliffe. Dorian, my latest addition, is visibly upset that he isn’t the expert in the room this time around; I try to field questions about Alexius’s time magic back towards him, but he knows that I’m only doing it out of pity. When we disperse, he calls me over. 

“Sloane- It is Sloane, right?” I nod. He smiles, “Don’t think I’ll ever get used to that. You certainly wear the fact that you’re not from Thedas on your sleeve.”

“Right.”

“So you’re really from another world, then?”

I nod. 

“And you know all sorts of things that’re going to happen here, in Thedas?”

I nod, again, beginning to feel a little dumb. 

“Maker, that must be a headache. And I thought dealing with the madness back home was bad enough.”

Another silence. He just sort of stands there, eyeing me. I realize, suddenly, that he doesn't know what to say. 

“Dorian, are you trying to get me to tell you your future?”

He feigns disbelief, “Well, that wasn’t my intention entirely, but… Well, just something small; I do like to indulge. But nothing too heavy, I beg you, _unless_ I die. I would really like to know if joining this little ‘movement’ is a death sentence or not, actually, while I can still escape back the way I came in.”

I smile, keeping in mind the perfect thing. Leaning over to his ear conspiratorially, I tell him, in no small detail, about Iron Bull. 

The way he stammers and tells me that I simply _must_ be playing some cruel joke on him at the end of it all is the most amusing thing I’ve seen for weeks. 

~*~

When we come to Redcliffe, I tell everyone to keep well away from Alexius and the time amulet I know he has hidden beneath his robes. This was all expected; what I did not expect, however, was to be the only one who got sucked through the time rift. 

Blackwall and Dorian, having volunteered to risk traveling through time, had been standing right beside me. And yet, when I had told Alexius that I knew about the amulet, and the failure of his plan, and all that would come, he simply sneered and threw it into the air. And all I had felt was a familiar, horrible force dragging my hand towards it, and in the next second I was cast a year into the future. 

At least this trip had been easier than my last one, though the impending panic of being stranded in time all alone, without even Dorian’s sardonic quips about the castle’s decor to keep me company, was heavily setting in. Laden with my fired-up nerves and a healthy dose of intertemporal motion sickness, my ensuing fight with the two castle guards is far from an easy one.

Thankfully, Leliana has managed to teach me a few tricks during my time at Haven. And though my fighting style is no way polished at the moment, my movements as jagged and erratic as my nerves, I manage to dodge and weave between the two (frankly pretty inept) guards until I find the perfect places in their armor to stick my daggers. I scrub their blood out from under my fingernails and wonder when I had gotten so used to killing; sure, I had watched plenty of bad TV back home, and had even somehow gotten into a small confrontation or two when it came to it, but sticking a 6-inch knife into a soldier’s back? Tearing into the formless body of a shade? That isn’t supposed to be easy stuff. 

But thinking of home makes my heart ache, and I push the thoughts aside for another time. Instead, I soldier on, all the more wary now that I am on my own. 

The dungeons below are filled with prisoners of all kinds - not just the party I brought with me to the summit. Makes sense, really: why would Alexius keep only the three fighters I had with me, and little else? I walk through rows and rows of lyrium-infected cells, feeling the material sing through my head, like some vibrating, high-pitched tone. I even touch it, at one point, unable to hold my curiosity back any longer; it shocks my hand, making it smart painfully for minutes later, and I know that the Earth-matter of my body isn’t meant to interact with this world in this way. 

Solas is the first one I find below, and the sight of him makes the breath catch in my throat. He looks even worse than he did in the game, his eyes tired and blank, his skin roughened by the lyrium’s corrupting force. Even his posture, always so proud and rigid before, seems to have sagged slightly as he sits in the corner of his cell.

“Funny how often we run into each other in prisons.” It seems as good a line as any for me to say. 

“Sloane!” He straightens up immediately, surprise spilled across his face. Suddenly, he remembers, and I see him put his expression back together, pull his eyebrows back down into place. “Has it been a year already?”

“Must be so.” I crouch down, set on unlocking the door to his cell. 

He looks at me warily. “And you are alone?”

I nod. 

He hums in response. “I imagine you have things to say.”

“I always knew this future, Solas.” 

“And yet something tells me it is not so simple.” The door swings open, and he steps out of it with a ragged ease. I look at him, then, the weight he’s lost, the hollow sag of his cheek, the loose folds of his tunic around his shoulders. 

I sigh, “You’ve seen this world destroyed, now. Watched it burn because of one man’s vision of righteousness.”

“You wonder if my intentions are still the same.”

I raise my eyebrows at him, questioning. 

“I…” he falters, for a moment too long. 

“Jesus Christ, Solas, you’ve been in this cell for a year. How long does it take you to arrive at a decision?”

“It is no easy task-“

“You’ve seen Thedas destroyed. Annihilated by the Fade, the whole sky just one giant fucking hole. The place overrun with chaos and death, and you would still follow through with your plan, knowing it will result in the same destruction? There is so much you could be, Solas…”

“You do not know that.” His lips are set in a heavy line. “Besides, what does it matter? This version of me is doomed to perish.”

“I _know_ you don’t believe that, Solas. This version of you matters too. All of the versions of you matter.” 

He says nothing.

“God, I can’t believe how fucking stubborn you are. What can I tell the you that I left back in Haven? That a version of him stood before me, sagging under the weight of red lyrium, his spirit hardened into a shard of red, looked me in the eyes and honest-to-God, or Maker, or Evanuris or whatever, told me that he survived the destruction of the world only to decide to rip it open again?”

“You are _not_ obligated to tell my other self anything.” His eyes are sharp, biting. And it dawns on me. I get it now. 

“Solas. You may not wish to be bound by your future,” I bite back, “but make no mistake: it’s coming for you, Fen’harel.”

He doesn’t say anything in return. This version of him is all brittle edges, collapsing in on himself. We continue in wordless silence, a silence that allows my thoughts to churn. I think of Thedas, and the Elves, and then I think of Earth, and my heart turns inwards onto itself. 

~*~

When all is said and done, we return to Haven. The very first thing I do is beg Jospehine for some paper. Then I head to the kitchens, where I haggle the cooks for as many ingredients as they’ll give me, eggs and flour and sugar and cold butter. Over the months, I’ve grown more accustomed to Thedan food, and even found it in many places better than the stuff I had back home. The eggs here are richer, a vibrant yellow, and there’s a comforting weight behind them as I crack them into a bowl. The butter is heavier, too, thick like cream and a shining golden color you just can’t get in the urban center of New York. Folding the dough in on itself at the end feels whole, more organic, and I crave the soft tug of it against my fingers. 

Haggling for oven space proves even more difficult, but I manage to find a spot for my imitations of the cookies my mom used to bake for me back home. The recipe had been simple enough, but I still couldn’t remember a single word of it, save for the need to sprinkle sugar on top at the end. With those set, I pick up a pencil I filched from Minaeve’s desk and set to writing; I should have a few minutes before I need to check on the dough in the oven. 

I wrack my brain, feeling increasingly silly and dumb. 

Finally, I set pencil to paper, and begin to write: 

_One part butter (app. one handful)_

_Two parts flour (two cups???)_

_One egg_

_Salt…_

It’s definitely wrong, but it’s a start. On another page, which I title “Philosophy” in a crabbed hand, I start to hesitantly write: 

_Earth has a long history of philosophic thought._ Shit, does that sound stupid. I can feel my cheeks begin to flush, slightly. 

_Locke believed in the Lockean Proviso: take as much as you need to satisfy your needs, as long as you leave enough for others._

_Kant believed in freedom (?)_ (I never did get to properly learn about Kant)

_Sartre believed in the division of human experience into facticity and transcendence._

_Neitzsche said God is dead._

At that, I begin to smell my dough coming through, so I abandon my trivial little project for now. The cookies I get in the end are misshapen, definitely, and they don’t flake the way they should (maybe the egg was a mistake?) but they’re a piece of something I remember. 

“Didn’t think I’d find you here,” Sera’s voice cuts into my thoughts. 

“I’m surprised to see you too.” I really am. 

“The grand Herald makes cookies now?” She scoffs, and I weakly offer one to her. She takes a bite. “They’re not half bad, at least?”

“Please, they’re nothing like they’re supposed to be,” I laugh. 

“I heard you went through some sort of time thing in Redcliffe. Supposedly. Lots of flashing lights and worried expressions, I bet. _If_ it’s true.”

“It is.”  
“Maker, weird shite just keeps happening to you, huh?”

I look at her. “It worries you.”

“No- well, I just-“ she takes another bite, trying to mask her stutter, “It’s a lot to take in, yeah?”

I nod. “Trust me, I know. I have to live through it.”

“I guess… Just if what they say is true, yeah, then that means you’re something. Like _something_ something, all holy and shite, or not even holy, maybe, and it’s…”

I sigh, take her hand in mine. It’s warm, and I can feel the aged callouses on her slender fingers from where she’s trained with her bow. 

“It’s okay, Sera.” How many times have I had to say that to people lately? “I’m just a person. Just like you. And I know that you’re going to be okay.”

“But…”

“I _know._ You always come out on top.” I drop her hand, and she startles, as if she just then realizes that I had been holding it.

She coughs, “Okay then, weirdo. Whatever you say. I just wanted to filch some food from you, is all.”

“Right,” I grin, “I’ll see you, Sera.”

“Go on.” Even though she’s the one going, technically, as she darts back out of the kitchen. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting to realize that Sloane basically just walks around Haven healing everyone's pain.  
> Which is a characterization I'm totally here for, especially since the one person's angst she can't cure is Solas...
> 
> PATCH NOTES:  
> Edit 1: urgh. Tried to fix the Dorian interaction a bit (ik it was bad before) but its. yeah.


	6. Haven: Ch. VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haven gets blown to bits. Basically the entirety of the "In Your Heart Shall Burn" questline. One (1) Solas interaction included.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fucked around with the canon here a little, just for fun. I love the way Corypheus talks, though I'm not sure I got it exactly right; will probably add to that exchange later. 
> 
> Also, some mild allusions to gore but nothing too heavy, I hope. Still, the first half might be a little icky.

When Haven is destroyed, it’s every bit as horrible as I could have imagined. Worse, actually; I’ve never exactly been present for the utter annihilation of an entire city, no matter how small, before. Most New Yorkers haven’t, I’m told. I’ve also never seen a fucking dragon before, while were at it, actually. A corrupted one, at that, and no matter how many hours I’ve sunk into Skyrim, into one arrow-prone dragon after another, nothing can prepare me for the insane hulk of hardened muscle that’s circling the sky above me. Every time it dips a little lower I can feel the air pressure around me change, hear the hydraulic woosh of its wings pressing atmosphere down onto my body. 

“You said it wouldn’t attack, right?” Iron Bull must’ve noticed my expression, and I realize how taut brows are. 

“It shouldn’t.”

“Shame,” he grumbles, and Dorian shoots him a look. Astonished disgust or interest, or maybe both. I don’t know. 

Even though we tried to keep all of the townspeople safe, there’s still burnt flesh in more places than I’d like by the end. And then in comes Corypheus, and I can’t help but look up at him in fear. The game doesn’t do justice to how tall he is. Or how disfigured his flesh is, the red lyrium crawling over his back like crystallized gore. Or how much fucking hatred he has behind his yellowed gaze, his broken voice, his stance. 

“You think you can foresee the future, little outsider?” He taunts, “You know nothing. Beg that I succeed, _stranger_ , for I have seen the true throne of the gods, _not_ _you_ , and it was empty.”

And even though I’m terrified, even though this man - no, creature or _thing_ \- even though this thing could probably actually crush me without second thought, me with my fingers clumsily wrapped around drakestone daggers, with my alien body, easily reduced to nothing but blood and bone… I can’t help but mouth his lines along with him. 

“You have the gall to ridicule me, stranger?”

“Why shouldn’t I? I know what happens,” I have to shout at him, he’s so far up, my words drowning in the wind, “Your fight is useless, Corypheus. There is no world in which you succeed.” For a brief moment, my eyes slide to Solas, standing by the Chantry in the distance. 

“Then I will create a new world,” Corypheus snarls, “built upon the ashes of this one. The new shall crush the old, grind it into the pitiful dust it must be, and has always been.” Solas’s face is rigidly blank. He probably can’t even hear a word of what’s being said. 

Corypheus raises the orb, does the song and dance of trying to command my mark. It hurts like all hell, just as I always expected it would, and for a few seconds my mind is nothing but blazing green. “Tell me this, little otherling, do you see the future now?” He steps closer, “Can you see your fall, your pitiful death, right here and now? The fall of this world, and the rise of the next?”

His hand, horribly clawed and heavy, comes to rest on my shoulder, “No one knows the future, false prophet. No one, save for those who choose to command it. Now kneel before me: you will _kneel_.” My shoulder practically burns from the aching pressure he puts on it, my marked hand radiating horrible green pain. 

“I’m afraid…,” I strain, “that I’ll have to take a raincheck on that offer, Corypheus.” Sweat is pouring down my forehead in sheets.

“A rain-?” That brief moment, however imperceptible and fleeting, is just enough to give me the final push to elbow his arm down and off of myself, to push him back. He barely moves, my strength having virtually no effect on him, but it’s enough to leverage myself back, and to swing the lever of the catapult. To destroy Haven. 

The last thing I see, before I am caught in an avalanche of snow, is Corypheus’s crooked silhouette towering over me, seated on the back of the dragon. And then I am surrounded in numbing, rolling whiteness. 

I am glad to, for once, not wake up sick with Solas standing over me. I don’t think I could handle him today. 

They’ve laid me close to the fire (a wise choice. I don’t know if hypothermia really exists in Thedas, but I definitely have an unhealthy dose of it). Mother Giselle is seated a few cots over, crushing herbs into salves and poultices. My entire lower half feels like one huge bruise. 

“You’re strange,” a voice comes from my right. It’s Cole, I know. His words are feathered and light, smooth with compassion. 

“I’ve been told.”

“You can see me…” The surprise is evident. 

“I’m not from around here. It’s a shame; I could use some of your mind tricks right about now.” 

“But I can’t see you. Your pain, your insides. Red and blue, green… no.”

“I’m pretty sure you don’t really want to, buddy.” Seriously, just one humongous bruise. Soft purpled flesh. I imagine my legs made of jelly and almost throw up a little. 

“But-“ he cuts himself off, sharply. I can see his eyes from underneath his wide-brimmed hat, watery and hollow. 

“I know that bothers you,” I sigh, “You’re a good kid, Cole. You _were_ a good kid. Always.” I’ve always wanted to tell him that. 

“You remember me as human?”

“Do you want me to?”

Cole pauses, stays silent for a while. Crap. I probably shouldn’t be going around troubling spirits with questions about free will and desire. 

After a while, he finally speaks up, “You’re like me.”

Honestly, the statement throws me off, so I just give him a slight laugh. “Maybe.” 

I turn my attention to Cullen, Cass, and the rest, all arguing. God, this was always my least favorite cutscene. 

Solas pulls me to the side, as he is supposed to. 

Before he can even open his mouth to speak, I cut him off. “Let me guess: you recognize the strength of a united Inquisition, the orb is Elvhen, and we’re going to Skyhold.”

For a brief moment, he stutters, tilting his head. “Honestly, I wish you would keep from doing that, at least once in a while.” His brow creases. 

“Sorry. But, you know what they say, time is money, money is power, whatever.”

“No. I do not know.” It’s not as angry as you would expect. More subdued, softer. 

“Right. Say, wasn’t Skyhold your castle? Where all of the Veil business exploded and all?”

“I… would prefer ‘stronghold,’ but yes, I suppose.” Solas’s voice is strained, now. God, I almost feel sorry for him. Do feel sorry for him, I guess, but not sorry enough to let this go. 

“You’d prefer ‘stronghold,’ but have no issue with me talking about Veil explosions?”

His eyes are an impassive steel. Ouch. “Anyways, that was not what I wished to talk to you about.”

“No?”

“Well, it _was_ ,” the mask keeping his irritation at bay paper-thin, “but I wanted to give you these first. I believe they are yours?” 

In one swift movement, he brings his hand out from behind his back and he has… a stack of papers. _My_ papers, the grubby sheets I took from Josephine and tried to write in night after night, in the warm Haven kitchen and in my cozy golden room. I hadn’t even had the chance to think about them, but of course they would have been destroyed in the fires at Haven, burned into ash, if no one had taken them. 

“How did you…?” I take them into my hands gratefully. 

“I know few people who write in an inscrutable script from another world. Do you?” 

I grimace; he’d probably been thinking about that line for hours. Or maybe not, maybe it just came up from the top of his head, but that was somehow worse. “No, I guess not. But still, how did you know I was writing them?”

“I…”

“Right. I probably don’t want to know.” Did he have spies in the Inquisition already? Was he spying on me personally? How was he playing this game?

“No, I did not mean… That was not my intention.” Solas coughs. “The pursuit of knowledge is important. I could not bear to see your work destroyed.”

Condescending fuck. “Yes. Thank you,” I sigh, “It means a lot.” It really does. 

“As I said, it would be a great disservice to let them burn.”

I hum my agreement. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eugh this chapter isn't perfect but I'm trying to wrap this prequel stuff up soon. Lmk of parts you wouldn't mind cutting/adding (constructively! of course).


	7. Exit Solas: Ch. VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wisdom dies (RIP in peace), Solas leaves, a chat with Iron Bull.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya loves! Hope you all are staying safe and healthy rn. Good news, though: shutdowns across the United States means I have more time to write. I'm really trying to finish this part of the fic up now, though, so these last two chapters might be a bit sloppier (sorry). I will probably go back and add more later, though, because my writing flow is horrible.

Nothing much else happens for a while. The Inquisition grows, the demon hordes shrink, I work at recording my memories of Earth and at learning Common. Life almost becomes normal, tedious, monotonous. You know, wake up, ride a dracolisk, kill a monster or two, wash the sticky blood off of yourself in a nearby stream. Just the usual. Sometimes the mark keeps me up at night, glowing green in the darkness of my tent, and then I always step outside to look up at the night sky and think about the Earth I left behind. 

All the same, day in and day out, until Wisdom dies. You know, Solas’s weird spirit friend thing? Looking at her is like condensed shadow, as if she’s side-stepping light, not quite here nor there, until she finally dissipates into nothing. 

I had never seen Solas so angry, and for the briefest of moments, I glimpsed the Dread Wolf, for real. His eyes had been pure glass, hard and brittle, and his face twisted up in ugly rage. His speech was sharp, cutting, and his sentences spilled over as if he was dumping blades onto the floor. It’s a strange way to describe it, but that’s all I could hear - the clatter and clang of metal skittering across the floor. I never want to be on the receiving end of that anger, and yet I probably will have to be before this is all over. 

I tell him that as he storms away across the plains, ready to gather his stuff and go… home? Into the wilderness? Just away? 

“Whether or not you must face it is still in your hands, Sloane.”

“I hope you don’t really believe that, Solas.”

“And I hope that you are not here to try and convince me to stay.” Clang. Unusually discordant, off. I pause for a second, gather myself. 

“I don’t think I ever could. Besides, it’s not my place. Or my wish, really. Though…” he would be necessary, after all, “If you could just come back one more time. Before this is all over.”

“Are you that afraid of missing me?” he huffs. Cocky bastard. Still, it catches me off guard. 

“N-no. Though I don’t know what the Inquisition will look like without you in it. I don’t know what that future holds,” and the orb! I need you to see the orb shatter into pieces, “…Besides I thought you’d want to see Corypheus fall for yourself.”

“You think me some sort of egoist.”

“Is there much evidence to the contrary?” 

He straightens his spine, takes a moment to pause. “I suppose you are correct, once again.”

And then it’s just the two of us, standing in the Exalted Plains. The wind blows golden light over the grass, fills the space with sweet honey. In the distance, I glimpse a set of Elvhen ruins, bleached stone columns crumbling into the earth. 

“I guess you’ll be leaving soon, then.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me, where can a fugitive apostate mage go in a time like this?”

“I will find a space. Somewhere quiet, to rest.”

“Sweet dreams.” I smirk. Though I do, of course, know where he is actually going, worlds and worlds and mirrors away. 

“…Yes.” Suddenly it seems very strange to be standing there with him. As much as I hate to admit it, Solas fascinates me, promises me an understanding of another, buried world, offers knowledge and insight and warning of what is to come. It’s like we’re in a movie now (God, how long has it been since I’ve seen one of those?), and neither character quite has the courage to leave the other behind, to state the obvious. 

Finally, he sighs. “I will try my best to return, Inquisitor. Corypheus is a common evil, after all.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Can’t say I will miss you much, though.”

“Hm.”

“Wise man not to respond to that,” I smile, “Until next time, Solas. I will give your best to the Inquisition.” Even if you don’t really deserve that honor, I can’t help thinking. 

And with a nod, the Dread Wolf is gone. 

~*~

Coming back to camp, I am gripped by indecision. I could sic Leliana’s spies on Solas, all of her closest confidants, ruin the Dread Wolf’s movement before it can really flare up again. And yet, can I afford those resources? In this final stretch leading to Corypheus, this final march, how much can I afford to lose? Especially without Solas’s expertise which, as much as I hate to admit it, was a necessary force in the Inquisition. 

A flask or two of bartered Dalish spirits later, Iron Bull and I are sprawled under a crumpled stone arch, overgrown by tree roots and greenery. The stars here are magnificent, and the white stone seems to glow from within with unearthly silver light. Or maybe I’m just absolutely smashed, barely even able to get up off of the ground right now. (Probably the latter). 

Bull is telling me about the Ben-Hassarath, growing up under the Qun, all the good stuff. 

“So how much do you get to choose, really, under the Qun?” I slur. 

“Well, the sex _is_ pretty great…”

“Other than that, other than that.” As much as I love to hear about Bull’s sex life, I doubt this is the time. 

“Not much, when you get down to it. Outsiders like to think it’s all standing in formation and wearing black, though. It isn’t.”

“But isn’t it diff’rent? Being out here? With the free folk?” God, I hate the way I get when I’m drunk.

“I guess. The big things, though, they still come from command central. I’m not Tal-Vashoth yet.”

I nod. “Choices are hard.” And, of course, there’s a tiny part of me that doesn’t want to stop Solas. That wants to give him a chance. That wants to put up a fair fight.

“Something on your mind, Boss?”

“…No.” I say, super convincingly, after a long pause. 

“You can’t trick Ben-Hassarath.” 

I suppose I can’t. I hazard, “I can’t talk about it. People forget, y’know, that I don’t only know the future. I know pasts, too.”

“Ah, one of those.”

“But I should talk about it.”

“Even better.”

“But I _can’t_!” This is agonizing. I feel sluggish, like I might throw up. “I never had to do shit like this back home.”

Iron Bull sighs. “Want my advice?” 

I look at him questioningly.

“Just do whatever. Asit tal-eb. Things happen or they do not. It’s all the same.” 

“That’s awfully cava-. Cava-seer. Cava… Awfully relaxed of you.”

“Only to you Bas,” he chuckles, deep and low. 

I sigh, “There’ll be a time when you’ll need to choose, Bull. Then you’ll know.”

“Wanna bet?”  
“Something tells me it’ll hardly be fair.”

“See? You’re cheering up already.” But Solas won’t let me alone, even as the night begins to wind down into dawn. In that newfound golden light, all I can think about is the absolute shitstorm I’ve got ahead of me.

**_QUNLAT GUIDE:_ **  
“Asit tal-eb” = “The way things are meant to be,” I understand it to basically mean “C’est la vie.”

“Bas” = literally a “thing,” neutral term for the non-Qunari and other things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw, if you need some spare entertainment I highly recommend looking up all of the Qunlat translations on the Dragon Age wiki. The language translates a lot worse than Elvhen, which I personally find incredibly amusing. 
> 
> Also, yes, drunk Sloane wasn't acting quite as drunk as she should be. I'll go back and rework it someday, I hope.


	8. Mythal's Guardian: Ch. VIII (Brief)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fighting that dragon at Mythal's shrine + some more lead-up to the final battle. Feat. bits and pieces of Vivienne, Bull, Cole, and Solas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick update as I try to power through. As I said, I'll def be adding to this fic later since it's basically just a collection of drabbles anyways, but I want to get to the endgame already...
> 
> Oh, and, some mild violence in the beginning. No real hurt being enacted on humanoid characters, though, only dragons. Or one dragon in particular.

Taking down the dragon at Mythal’s shrine is electrifying. I always appreciated how the dragons in the game really gave a good fight, but in real life? It’s like nothing I could have ever imagined before. Every swing of its tail and every step it takes is absolutely earthshaking, resonating somewhere deep within my chest. Briefly I remember what it was like to walk past construction, when the old buildings got demolished and torn apart to make way for the new. 

Maybe Bull’s onto something here, I think, as I clumsily roll away from the dragon’s claws to strike at its heel. Its leathery scales barely budge underneath my blade. 

Or maybe, I can’t help stopping myself, maybe you’d still like to think that this is a game. That you can evade any real danger, that in fact none of this is real, that you can run around Skyhold placating whoever while you throw daggers haphazardly at a cardboard target. Like it or not, this a real world you’ve stumbled upon, with real pain and real anguish- 

“Sloane!” I hear Vivienne call out to me just a second too late, and the dragon triumphantly knocks me backwards a yard or so. My leather overcoat may be thick, but I can still feel myself skid uncomfortably against the rocky dirt as the wind is pushed out of my lungs. My point exactly. 

Still, I’ve learned how to be pretty quick on the uptake (months of combat will do that to you). As the dragon swings itself around to face me, no doubt in an attempt to target me with its flame, I deftly roll out of the way to rest by its front leg. In a few sharp movements, I bring myself up to stand and, in a final push, sink both of my daggers as deep as they will go into the soft plating on the dragon’s chest. As the metal bites into flesh, I hear the dull thud of Iron Bull’s greatsword hitting against the dragon’s side with a heavy finality. I drag my daggers downwards, watching the blood come up under my fingers, and hear the dragon begin to lose its strength. With a final cry, it bows down to the ground. 

~*~ 

I exit the shrine to Mythal with my new, dragon-shaped ally only to come face-to-face with an old, Solas-shaped one. Which is to say that, for some ungodly reason, Solas is waiting for us outside of the temple; he looks almost unchanged, but I can’t suppress the feeling that he’s somehow grown taller, gained a certain quiet presence. Gained followers, more like, and probably considerable strength. 

“That appears to have been quite the fight. I apologize that I could not assist.” Of course, we have to playact in front of the rest of the party. 

“How did you know to find me here?” Like lines from a play. 

“News of your celebrity travels wide, Inquisitor. I heard of your visit to Mythal, and later that you were visiting this area. Though I will admit that it is quite serendipitous that I have caught you at this exact moment.”

“Quite,” Vivienne bitterly smiles. 

“Well, I can’t promise you fulfilling rations and quite enough water, but I take it you’ll be joining us for this final stretch?” I ask. 

“If you will have me.”

“…Smile kindly, but there’s something else underneath, secret skin, somehow deeper, dark blue water underneath glancing golden light, black fur and claw…” Crap. I usually remember when Cole is places, but he’s managed to slip through my grasp this time. I glance over at him: he’s overworking himself, brow furrowed deeply, trying to feel Solas out. 

Sharply, he returns my gaze. “And you… deep, too, but different. I… but I still can’t feel you. Of course.” And he looks so genuinely heartbroken at that that I can’t stop myself from reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s alright, Cole.” His frame is bony underneath my touch. “We’re almost at the end of our journey,” I announce to the party at large, “so now is no time for second-guessing. You have all trusted me for this long. I can only hope that you will understand- that you’ll understand when this is all over.” As my voice falters, I lock eyes with Solas again. 

“Ooh, I can feel a storm coming,” Iron Bull rumbles beside me. 

Cole is still fretting, mumbling to himself, and I want to kick myself, to point a finger at Solas right then and there… but it’s probably too late for that. When I had looked into his eyes just now, they had been all chilled steel, and I just know, I know that he could destroy us all with a single snap of his fingers and a simple thought whenever he wishes. 

“A storm it will be,” I finally sigh. Fuck. “I’ve fucked up, haven’t I?”

“Only one way to know, my dear,” Viv says. 

“Just know that everything I did… I thought it was best at the time. There are things I couldn’t tell you…,” I break off, exhausted, “Let’s get back to Skyhold. We’ll gather the others, and finish this thing once and for all. That’s what’s important.” Hopefully that’s triumphant enough for them. We set off towards camp. 

And I shoot one last strained smile towards Solas. “That goes for you too, Fen," I half-whisper, out of earshot from the rest, "See you on the other side." 

He turns towards me, and his expression is unreadable as always. “Inquisitor.” Painfully concise, and yet his acknowledgement has said all that I needed to know. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it a mess? Yes. But I've never been any good at structure. Here's hoping there's something worth reading here anyways...
> 
> Also, I spent some time realizing that this particular quest apparently shows up in a lot of different ways depending on decisions made during both this game and also earlier Dragon Age games? It all has to do with Morrigan's arc. Anyways, I just kinda assumed that most people have to battle the dragon in some capacity (the wiki isn't really clear on that though) so I hope this is still true to everyone's experience!


	9. End Act One: Ch. IX (very, very brief)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finish. Him.

“Just know, this has been the single most amazing experience I could have ever hoped for… I love you all so, so much. Thank you for being at my side all these months, for helping me learn and grow and adapt. Thank you for being with me now.” I sound so sappy. My god, I sound ridiculous, but it’s true: this has been an absolutely incredible, mind-blowing, life-changing experience, one I could have barely ever imagined. And now, I’m about to end it once and for all, to bring Thedas the peace it deserves. So of course I cry, “Now, let’s go give that fucking asshole hell!”

“Damn right, Boss,” “Assuredly,” “Punch him right in his Cory-phenus!” The party colorfully echoes. They’re all with me, now; no one had been willing to even entertain the thought of not experiencing the final battle firsthand. As for the events that I know will follow… Now is not the time.

~*~

We assault Corypheus from every angle, all ten of us, but his attacks constantly keep us on our guard as he twists and changes the shape of the battlefield. It reminds me dimly of one great predator being surrounded by a school of flitting prey, his attacks scattering us and grouping us back together. Except in this case the predator is a gaunt, corrupted magister, and the prey has it out for blood. It’s myself, trying to find every small weakness, every crack into which I can slide my daggers. It’s Varric, mercilessly blasting ammo against his target in a show of shrapnel and fire. Blackwall, deflecting blow after blow, and Cassandra, gripping chain and maul. Sera, dodging and weaving with her arrows curving through space, and Dorian, sending frostbite up Corypheus’s robes. Vivienne gripping magic blade and Cole flitting from shadow to shadow. And Solas, drawing raw mana from the Veil, no doubt doing more damage than all of us combined. Solas, raining down earth and sky, twisting electric charge that makes my hair stand on end. Solas, muttering Ancient Elvhen curses to reclaim what’s his, to send one final strike that lands Corypheus flat onto his back. 

There, as I stand over him, blades in hand, is when Corypheus tries to wield his orb in one last attack, Solas looking on. As I finally plunge metal into the waxen flesh of Corypheus’s neck, rending skin and muscle, the orb skips out of his grasp, as I knew it would. 

It shatters, as I knew it would, with a high-pitched whine.

And Solas scrambles towards it, as I knew he would. 

But what happens next I couldn't foresee. I still can't quite process or quite understand it, to tell you the truth. 

The first thing to hit me is a smell of burning, like tinny gasoline, copper and aerosol fumes. It hits me so hard I feel as if something is being shoved up my nose, like drinking Coke on the beach and laughing just a little too hard except so much worse, because somehow this smell is breaking through the cartilage and jamming itself into my sinuses. It's almost a palpable pain, almost, one that's being overshadowed by the very real pain stabbing through my hand, nerve endings screaming for some sort of release. I can barely pay attention to that, though, because my vision is suddenly being flooded with a horrible, horrible green, and it's all too much and I can feel my senses overloading, surrounded by this crackling haze of overbearing color. 

Briefly, I manage to think a single syllable: shit. 

And then I'm jerked into unconsciousness. And, just this once, I have no idea what the fuck's going on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand. That's that. That's the end. Guess you'll have to read the next work in the series to know what it all means ;)
> 
> PATCH NOTES:   
> Edit 1: Wowza. Realized I really needed to spice up the ending, so I did.

**Author's Note:**

> Very important disclaimers: my name is not actually Sloane. I cannot emphasize enough that it's just a name I find super cool, hence why I made it my nick on here. But I was thinking for a long time what I could call this OC and Sloane is just such a perfect name for her, I couldn't resist. I know it makes me look like a narcissist in a lot of ways but I cannot repeat enough that Sloane isn't. My actual. Name. 
> 
> Also yes, the verb tenses are very intentionally screwy in the first bit. She's breaking through time itself, folks.


End file.
